


Sundays With Scheherazade

by MelanijaParadis



Series: The Stelliform Chronicles [2]
Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Allegory, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Canon LGBTQ Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Chemistry, Eventual Romance, F/F, First Dance, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Inspired by Art, Jewelry, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, Law School, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Metaphors, New York City, No Sex, OverWitch - Freeform, Passion, Random & Short, Sexual Metaphors, Shorts, Slow Burn, Spooning, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24968062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanijaParadis/pseuds/MelanijaParadis
Summary: This is a brief spin-off of my previous work, "On Lorenz Theory & Love," from Mel's perspective. Mel wakes up in Abigael's apartment after SafeSpace Prom, having professed her feelings. However, Abigael tricks her into signing a magical contract, refusing to be courted by Mel unless Mel spends 60 Sundays with her, with no intimacy allowed except for occasional dancing or similar. Because Abigael is of the firm belief that women like Mel would never love someone like herself.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera
Series: The Stelliform Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813234
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Bacchanalia Mysterium

1 Bacchanalia Mysterium

_8 am PDT/3 pm, Day after SafeSpace Post Prom, New York Luxury Apartment, Bedroom_

Mel awoke to a mysterious amount of elegant floor-to-ceiling windows. The down comforter was an understated black, in contrast with the crisp white multitudinous-threaded sheets. Her Annie Hall-style ivory suit was folded in a corner chair, and she was completely alone— _or was she?_ Mel had recalled leaving the SafeSpace bar to go dance elsewhere, and there might or might not have been a contract involved with a nefarious force, that she had to visit said entity every Sunday for sixty weeks, in the style of Scheherazade. _Or was that just a dream? Please, let me be dreaming._ But Mel knew that strange happenings were afoot.

Having been lured out of the enigmatic bedchamber by the aroma of crisp, sizzling turkey bacon, she slowly dressed in the adjoining bathroom, wearing her ivory slacks and camisole from yesterday, and made her way into the modern, airy kitchen, where she detected a cryptic tune.

“ _Mysterium_ , Alexander Scriabin’s unfinished work,” a silky British female voice called from near the stove.

_Oh shit. It was Abigael._

_8:15 am, New York Luxury Apartment_

“Abigael, we didn’t by any chance…make a contract, did we?” Mel prayed that her memories were all but deceiving her, as she drew a forkful of bacon into her mouth. _Wow,_ thought Mel. _Abigael sure knows how to sear her meat._

“As a matter of fact,” Abigael regarded her with a sly, Cheshire Cat-like expression, “we most certainly did.”

Mel’s silver fork fell from her hand with a clatter onto the oblong Ashmont-style marble dining table, the sound echoing across the high-ceilinged acoustic walls of the apartment, hitting the midnight-hued cylindrical light sconces overhead. _Shit._ “What were the stipulations of said contract, exactly?” Mel tried to steady her voice.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you, Mel, professed your undying limerence to me after yesterday night’s revelry…” Abigael stated. “In American parlance, you may have mentioned wanting to court me.”

Mel blushed. _This was awkward—even for her._ “So then what happened?”

“I said no—not until…” Abigael stopped to fixate on her own plate, using her fork to stab what remained of her sunny-side up egg with a particular vengeance.

“ _Not until…_?” Mel said uneasily, staring at the bright yellow yolk’s viscosity bleeding out of the denatured, savagely brutalized ovum.

“Not until you spend sixty Sundays with me—to get to know who I truly am, warts and all.”

Mel breathed a sigh of relief. _This didn’t seem too bad—right?_ “So, in order to go on a date with you, I need to spend those Sundays alone with you, in your apartment?”

"Correct." Abigael crossed her arms and regarded Mel's form from across the table. "You can't tell your family that you're with me (I _will_ find out), and it must be every Sunday for the next sixty Sundays, à la modified Scheherazade. If you tell your family, you are banned for life from dating me. Also, per contract, no intimacy, save for a dance."

“And if I can’t show up on one Sunday?” asked Mel curiously. “What then?”

“Well, no more Abigael, forever and a day.”

 _Talk about psychological torture,_ Mel thought as she stood up to take her dishes to Abigael’s pristine, state-of-the-art stainless steel chrome sink embedded in even more of the shatter-proof, elegant marble that perfectly matched the Ashford table’s minimalistic style; Abigael followed suit. “Abi, _why_ are you doing this? Why can’t we just… _date_?”

Abigael stood behind Mel, whispering softly into her ear, as Mel uttered a soft gasp. “ _Because witches like you could never love an overlord like me_. _”_


	2. Midnight Pony

2 Midnight Pony

_7 pm PDT, 6 Sundays in, Vera Manor, Backyard Garden_

Mel had shown up right as the engagement party’s dinner was being served, muttering under her breath about “ _highly regrettable decisions,”_ in response to Maggie’s exasperated, eyebrow-raising inquiry of “where _were_ you?” when they were out of earshot of the other attendees. Mel felt bad that Maggie had been forced to act as wedding planner and engagement party planner for her pregnant, engaged sister, but at the same time, was relieved that she herself had escaped the all-too-familiar round of well-meaning questions about her love life and whether she would adopt or have children naturally in the distant future ( _in vitro? Sperm donor?)_. Mel always cringed at hearing those questions.

After dinner, Mel checked the time on her phone, and realized that Abigael was expecting her soon. She made a run for the Command Center, choosing Abigael’s apartment as her intended destination. Mel truly felt bad for Maggie, as she saw her facing two tall towers of dirty dishes clamoring for attention in the sink. _But, the night was young, and Mel had a soul worth pursuing, however long it would take._ And so Mel’s love story began.

_10 pm, New York Luxury Apartment_

Mel knocked at Abigael’s front door using the polished bronze door knocker, but nobody answered. She knocked a second time, then heard a voice sweetly sing, “Come in! The door’s already open.” After a second’s hesitation, Mel turned the doorknob and entered into the airy finery she recalled from her last heady sojourn within its acoustic walls; the high-ceilinged apartment was quiet and dark, as she attempted to regain her bearings. “Over here!” the voice cried, its echoes emanating throughout the cavernous _endroit._ Mel looked around; _where was Abigael’s voice coming from?_ Mel made a right toward the marble-laden kitchen counter, peering around. No Abigael in sight. She then turned to her left and went upstairs to Abigael’s loft. Nobody was there. Mel passed the guest bedroom—no Abigael there either. Puzzled, Mel returned downstairs, then made for a darkened corridor that she had seen out of the corner of her eye earlier. After several hundred paces, she found herself facing an intricately-carved ebony wood door at the end of the corridor, which had been deceptively longer than she had originally imaged. Eying the door and turning toward the floor-to ceiling curtains and expansive city view that laid behind her, she bravely twisted the handle, opening the door. Mel stepped in the room, closing the ebony door behind her.

_10:15 pm, New York Luxury Apartment, Safe_

The first thing she noticed were the sparks, as if a blowtorch had been lit from within this cozy cocoon of a room, which Mel strongly suspected was soundproof. “What are you doing, Abigael?” she exclaimed, stepping closer to the source of the flaring brightness that engulfed the once-dark room.

“Trying— _trying_ —” Abigael grunted, her fingers poised _just so_ on the blowtorch-like instrument, “to open this safe box of one of my most favorite treasures.” She gestured with her chin toward what resembled a safe box embedded into a side of the wall. “I can’t remember how to decrypt the code.”

“Can I help?” Mel attempted to offer aid, unsure of what exactly she could do to remedy the situation.

“Sure, it’s not like you could do much more damage than I have,” Abigael remarked, partly out of frustration. Ignoring Abigael’s words, Mel paced back and forth in front of the safe. It looked vaguely familiar, the metal. She knew she had seen it before during the times she had vanquished creatures in Bram Castle. _How did this mechanism work again?_ Then it hit her. This wasn’t an ordinary safety deposit box. _No._ This was an enchanted one, likely forged by a female blacksmith skilled in the ordinary art of charms.

“Can I touch the door?” Mel asked softly, without looking at Abigael.

“Be my guest,” she replied, though her sarcasm was now replaced by sharpened interest in Mel’s ability to penetrate the confines of this dark metal purse.

Mel uttered a runic verse she recalled seeing above the doors of the last safety deposit box she coaxed open from her earlier castle adventures, stroking the keyhole tentatively with her right index finger—not once, as Abigael had thought would be the case—but twice, thrice, four, eight times…

“Isn’t that a bit… _excessive,_ Mel?” asked Abigael, though she secretly enjoyed watching Mel create elegant infinity symbols that encircled the most delicate part of this iron-clad fixture.

“Not if you want the safe to reveal itself,” Mel responded, continuing to rub the keyhold faster—continuing onward, at twelve…fourteen…eighteen…then _twenty_ times. She stepped back from the safety deposit box, as it anthropomorphically pulsed and shuddered, as if it were experiencing a humanoid ecstasy of its own. She could feel her own toes curling, _just a tiny bit_. The iron box then flung open its door, leading to a succession of _clicking, clattering, chiming_ to reveal a smaller box, then to increasingly tinier boxes, Matryoshka-style. “Does this remind you of Russian dolls, the type that you open one, and there’s a tinier doll, et cetera?” Mel peered over at Abigael, who quickly recovered from her astonishment that Mel was able to decrypt what had taken herself years of unrelenting, painstaking struggle.

“My dear mumsie was part Russian, if that answers your question,” Abigael answered in her familiarly creamy voice. The mesmerizing Matryoshka unfolding of iron boxes had slowed, then subsided entirely leading to one box left unopened. Abigael and Mel were both inches away.

“Is that—is that dangerous?” Mel asked, pointing at the final unopened box. She mentally cursed to herself, knowing she ought to have asked what was in the box in the first place. Knowing how eager Abigael was to grab ahold of this mysterious object, it was probably hazardous to life and limb.

“Only as blackmail fodder,” Abigael airily replied. She blew her own breath upon the box’s edges, which collapsed to reveal—

Mel shaded her eyes in fear—then took a look.

_It was a tiny three-inch smoky-colored toy pony figurine._

“That’s a… _pony?”_ Mel was incredulous. “We spent time applying runes, opening an iron-clad safe for a child’s toy pony?”

“Her name’s Midnight,” said Abigael, scooping up the miasmic toy whose mane was a dark purple color. _The color of bruises. And royalty._ “A present from the dark side, which mumsy took away. And I finally have her back, after all these years.” A tear fell and remained frozen on her pale, immortal, porcelain cheek.


	3. Pearls and Swine

3 Pearls & Swine

_1 pm, 12 Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

Mel again found herself at the oblong Ashford table, engrossed in the finery and architectural finesse around her. The curtains were floor-to-ceiling but covered two full stories instead of the typical one. The cylindrical light sconces swung overhead with the slightest movement from far below, and she could hear tiny, rippling echoes of her footsteps, each time her foot hit the impeccably dark Siberian oak flooring.

She recalled Maggie having exclaimed once, some time ago in frustration, that she had what she deemed was a “Savior Complex”—the acute, aching, unrelenting desire to rescue the most irredeemable dregs of modern society. Stirring the glass of seltzer and orange juice together, Mel sipped, contemplating those words, which had of late gotten under her skin, and permeated both her subconscious and her awakened cognitive ability.

Mel twisted her Costa Rican blue butterfly ring, which she wore on her slender right ring finger, a nervous habit. The _Peleides blue morpho_. Genus: _Morpho_. Species: _M. peleides_. Binomially known as _Morpho peleides Kollar_ , discovery dated to 1850. She often turned to reciting facts and figures, as if she were reciting meditative mantras—they provided order and organization in a universe of utter complexity and chaos.

She once recalled reading from a placard in the local natural history museum that the blue butterfly represented a spirit communicating through transformation and change. In some cultures, spotting one meant that sudden good luck was sure to follow. Blue butterflies were also, if she remembered correctly, considered wish-granters. _But was this a good spirit? And what kind of wish would be granted?_

Having finished her drink, Mel proceeded to the dark languorously-lengthened corridor, and braced herself for yet another heady project, courtesy of Abigael.

_1:30 pm, New York City Luxury Apartment, Safe_

Mel stepped through and closed the ebony wood door behind her. Instead of finding herself at the wrong end of a sparking blowtorch (from the previous toy pony incident), she found herself instead facing the safe’s furthest left corner wall. She stepped closer, noticing that Abigael stood by next to this area silently, with an assignment in order.

“Meet my pearls.”

_1:35 pm, New York City Luxury Apartment, Safe_

Mel blinked in confusion. _Her pearls? Abigael, of all people, had a jewelry collection?_ Mel really did not fancy her the type that directed herself toward ostentatious jewelry. She did notice a peculiarly gem-like glow emerging from the left corner wall, so she stepped forward curiously, ignoring her wiser instincts to flee in the opposite direction.

The first thing Mel noticed, peering into this corner drawer of jewelry, was that these were extremely long, seemingly never-ending strings-upon-strings, ropes-upon-ropes, of tiny beaded string pearls, the type she recalled seeing in fancy storefronts as a child that looked as if they were the masticated, half-chewed, somewhat devoured step-child of its pearly predecessor. She glanced downward toward her own shining, polished cerulean blue butterfly ring, noting how different the two seemed. The seed pearls, though glistening, appeared to have _seen things_ , if such a thing were even remotely within the realm of possibility.

Mel reached out, after a few long seconds of staring at the endless tiny semiprecious sea stones, touching the rope closest to her. It shook, causing Mel to jump back. However, Mel quickly regained her composure and bravely continued her examination of the rope. She noticed that one particular facet was grey and slightly smudged with something dark maroon—she looked closer, startled. _Was that…blood?_ Her heart began to pound, and she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline that flowed through her brainstem, to her spine, coursing through her veins, and onto her extremities.

She recalled the legend of Black Beard… _or was that Blue Beard?_ Mel could never get her folklore straight when she needed it the most. All she remembered was that a young woman was married off to a murderous pirate and was told to never open an upstairs room. She disobeyed, opened the room with a key, and found a gruesome discovery, causing her to drop her ill-gotten key in a puddle of red whose color permanently stained the key. _Did the woman survive?_ Mel thought she did, but wasn’t 100% sure…

2 _pm, New York City Luxury Apartment, Safe_

Mel muttered a cleaning charm that she had used months earlier, and the grey and red stains disappeared from the seed pearl rope. She then looked toward the bottom of the jewelry case, noticing miniature cabinets stashed to the left and right sides. Mel tenuously opened one on the right and removed what appeared to be a petite razor clam shell with a hole bored within it, with a metal hook woven through. _Earrings._ Which could easily double as… _weapons. The seed pearl ropes? Elegant nun chucks or escape ropes._

She stepped back, having had a sudden, bone-chilling realization. Abigael had just introduced her to the deadliest weapons in her arsenal.

Mel turned toward Abigael, walked over until she was but several centimeters away, and beckoned for Abigael’s hands. Abigael shot her a skeptical look before rolling her eyes and showing Mel her outstretched palms, as if to say, _no touching, remember?_ Ignoring this, Mel honed in on her left ring finger, noticing a thin hairline wound that matched the seed pearl’s imprint. She whispered a few words, and the injury vanished without a single trace.

In this dance with the devil, who was being corrupted? But continuing her silent ruminations, surveying the precious jewelry from a foot or two away, the tiniest part of her remarked offhandedly, _did it even matter?_


	4. Mind Palace

4 Mind Palace

_8:30 pm, 15+ Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

The skyline shone a dusky, uncharacteristic crimson, with billowing broad curlicued clouds and flashes of slate and ember. _An electrical storm_. Mel looked out from the floor-to-ceiling window, mesmerized by the multitudinous color spreading throughout the horizon. Touching the glass pane with the tips of her very fingers, she couldn’t decide whether to be terrified or impressed by Mother Nature’s wondrous beauty.

When she was little, she often found herself lingering in certain sections of art museums on field trips, entranced by the Georgia O’Keefe canvas renderings of large-petaled, shapely orchids, knowing deep down, that something within her stirred in a way that was distinctly different from most of her peers. Her classmates would move on to the abstract Picasso exhibits, the sunburst-driven Monet, Monet’s counterpart Manet, and the printed computer-esque pointillism style of Seurat, and she always stayed behind, marveling at one O’Keefe painting in particular, the “Black Iris II.”

 _Black Iris II._ Mel closed her eyes. With her near-photographic memory, she could almost perfectly visualize its ivory-white top left and right corner background petals that blended in with the setting, to the point each was indistinguishable from the other. She knew, instinctively, the damask shadows of the petal’s furling and unfurling texture, which transitioned into darkness at its center, inky and alluringly mysterious. Surrounding its underside were the foreground petals laced with silver and apricot hues, as if to convey an enigmatic secret known by few, but sought by many, culminating in an evergreen root of vitality and fervor, lifting the blossom toward the effervescent sky.

Mel wondered why nobody else was as entranced as she by Black Iris II. To her, the artwork was the purest embodiment of the feminine form, balancing ambivalent, uncertain darkness with that which was bright, beautiful, and good. Remembering just then where she was, she opened her eyes and continued to watch the lightening dance across the now-emerging torrential fog and mist.

As if on cue, the front door shut, and Mel, jolted out of her reverie, turned around, only to see Abigael’s rain-drenched form rush upstairs and into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her, turning on the shower faucet to the strongest possible setting. Concerned, Mel followed her cautiously, up each of the many stair steps, and to the right, where she found herself blockaded in the shadows against her very own O’Keefian Iris.

Mel knocked on the bathroom door, once, then a second time, harder. “Abigael, are you okay?”

Abigael by this time was in the glass-enclosed structure-within-a-structure, an urban dweller’s Matryoshka. The storm’s liquid impurities mingled with her own tears that fell across her pristine, unblemished alabaster skin, tumbling in steady droplets to the drain below, to disappear into nothingness. The magical contracts business was a soul-destroying one, assuming she herself had any soul left at this point. She had spent the past 25 straight hours trying to negotiate the release of her client’s pet cheetah, and the entire building and everyone in it, had gone up in flames. _Literally._ She drew lather from her bath gel container, a most intoxicating poppy-scented concoction with an ambiguous hint of cinnamon and clove.

She mulled over the negotiations in her head. It hadn’t helped matters that her client’s abusive ex-spouse, and everyone within, was armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs, nor did it do her client any favors when said ex demonstrated his twelve arms and proceeded to choke Abigael herself. Instinctively, she made as if to annihilate him, but grossly miscalculated due to a sudden dearth of oxygen (and the ten flailing limbs besides). Her aim was terrible, and a flame-shooter _might_ have been involved at the umpteenth second. Granted, her client wasn’t entirely blameless, having embezzled her ex’s property in retaliation for his lascivious dealings even prior to that. _She simply felt bad for the cheetah_. It wasn’t its fault that it was caught between two warring, idiotic mortal humans that were too self-centered to reach a sullen, back-alley compromise. _Like her own parents, all those decades ago._

“I’m fine—I really am,” she responded to Mel, hoping beyond hope that she sounded convincing enough so Mel wouldn’t get the radical idea to charge straight through the door.

Mel sighed in relief, sliding down into a seated position against the firm, unyielding barricade. _She’s ok._

As long as she could possibly remember, Mel had always had a certain weakness for the ephemeral—and come to think of it, a most unfortunate habit of involving herself in beautiful, tragic phenomena.


	5. Barrister Becometh

5 Barrister Becometh

_Decades Ago, Law School Lecture Hall_

Abigael slunk lower, and lower _still_ , into the nondescript beige 1980s plastic cushioned seating of the stadium-style classroom with its Madame Tussaudian waxen sheen, filled to the brim with eager-beaver barristers-to-be. If purgatory existed, _and she knew, deep down, it did,_ this classroom seating style must have been its inspiration.

Professor Aristide Kevinson was a young, smarmy masculine mustachioed sort, the type that derided women lawyers and the style of their writing. The one that continually rejected females, such as Abigael herself, from entering the high-brow esteemed law societies for chronic overachievers. For reasons unknown, he had been in a particularly foul mood as of late. He chose a 30-page brief from the above-the-head towering stack of dead, pulverized white, opaque tree fibers, reading aloud, his utter contempt spewing forth into the trembling, terrified audience. _It was her own work—the adjectives, the memoranda, the case law description—her child, in a sense._

 _Wasn’t it bad enough that mum hated she hadn’t gotten into a first-rate law school?_ When Abigael had announced her acceptance to a top 25 uni, and on scholarship too, her mother had angrily admonished her that it wasn’t Cambridge (her mum’s alma mater), and “a scholly was for poor students from lowered families,” whatever that meant. And that she certainly wouldn’t be bragging to her friends at the over-60 bridge social club she attended every Wednesday— _pigeons, flocks of common, gossip-mongering narrow-minded pigeons, the lot of them_ , Abigael disgustedly thought. All she had ever wanted, for as long as she could remember, was her dear mumsie’s steady, unwavering approval. And she had failed, yet again, for what seemed the thousandth time in the past decade.

The contempt of her mum was easy enough to bear, as the scholarship kept her wanting for nothing in the way of books and dormitory arrangements. She neglected to consider the in-class roasting by her least-favorite professor, however. To distract herself, she removed a contracts book from her maroon faux leather satchel, which matched her sleek, understated-yet-sublime motorcycle jacket, flipping it open to _“Chapter 1: Introduction to Contracts: Offer, Acceptance, and Consideration.”_ She tried to drown out his nasty, unpleasant sonorous volume, as he went on, criticizing the comma usage, the paragraph structure, the use of proper nouns for places, persons, and things. _Was that really necessary?_ Pale and shaking, her slender hands gripped the textbook covers with a previously unknown ferocity, her fingernails puncturing the meticulously-embossed, patterned cover.

Abigael knew her mum had said no dark magic was allowed; to this effect, Abigael had even been given orb-like, ostentatious pearl stud earrings to dampen said ability, but she was beginning to feel her temper rising, undulating, and peaking into an explosive wave of invisible, torrential fury. _A minute passed by…then two…then three…_ she stared into the irritating piehole between his hairy portion of his visage, concentrating her glare in a transfixed manner, as he verbally eviscerated her exquisite work of art. Before she could realize it, her fingers had subconsciously, stealthily removed her stud earrings, piercing the covers of her contracts textbook, with the earring backings dotted neatly behind them.

Finally, the bell tolled. _Lecture had ended. Praise be._ After throwing him one last death glare, she thought nothing more of her ill-will toward the insidious, insipid man, until the following afternoon, when the evening post landed on her flat’s doorway, announcing the sudden death of Professor Aristide Acacius Gaylord Kevinson, the third of his name, from a peculiarly aggressive bout of rapid-onset Stage 4 colon cancer, despite having a perfectly clean bill of health from his gastroenterologist just 72 hours prior.

_8:35 pm, 24 Sundays in, Present Day, New York Luxury Apartment_

“Why are there earrings embedded in the cover of your book?”

Abigael jolted back to reality. “No reason,” she icily replied to Mel, who was looking at her in askance, holding the now-dusty contracts tome. “Throw those away.”

Mel complied, knowing better than to ask questions.


	6. From Frieda, to Iris

6 From Frieda, to Iris

_8:45 pm, 30 Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

From what Mel could recall of the Legend of Scheherazade, Scheherazade had been a famous Persian queen, the storyteller in _One Thousand and One Nights_. The tale, dating back centuries ago, described an Arabian king who married a young girl daily; at the close of each night, he would order his new wife’s head chopped off. _How macabre._

She tried to toss the unsettling thought of the Persian queen and her bloodthirsty spouse out of her head, and rummaged through her purse for her notebook. Which of course she had forgotten, _yet again._ These past six months had made her lose her concentration on just about everything. Though her family was mostly preoccupied with Macy’s pregnancy, she could feel Maggie’s eyes following her as she made her way past the living room and out the Vera Manor front door. Mel briefly considered opening her own window and surreptitiously jumping into the bushes but didn’t want to risk dire injury and not being able to see Abigael again.

Mel found a postcard from her last museum visit, a sublime, tropical portraiture of Frieda Kahlo, with her prominent unibrow, a tiny black panther cub situated on her left, and what looked to be a baby gorilla on her right. _“Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird,”_ the underlying caption read. _This would have to do._

Pulling out a pen, Mel wrote three columns on the postcard’s back:

 _Pros:_ Most powerful _tour-de-force_ I know, beautiful, intelligent, classy taste in decorating, amazing at defensive magic, skilled barrister, her voice gives me the shivers in a cool spine-tingling, sparkly unicorn sort of way

 _Cons:_ Does dangerous highly lethal things, keeps secrets, has mommy issues, daddy issues, issues with her extended family, issues with _my_ family…

 _Other:_ Nickname/Iris, has a thing for childhood nostalgia, repurposing fanciful items as weaponry, loves animals, and has an internal moral compass inscrutable to all but those who truly understand her

“What’ve you got there?” Mel heard a familiar smooth voice and looked up at the shadow looming above her seated form. Mel tried to hide the postcard, but Abigael snatched it away, turned it over, and angled it this way and that, poring over it for the next minute or so before finally speaking.

“It’s a list,” Abigael stated, turning it over to Mel who ripped it out of her hand. “Is there another woman? I hadn’t any idea.” She appeared to be playing things casually, but Mel could have sworn for half a millisecond that there were bright crimson flames flickering in her corneas.

“No, it just a list—of _you,_ ” said Mel. “You know there isn’t anyone else.”

“Of… _me?_ ” Abigael appeared pleasantly surprised, though somewhat puzzled. “But—who is this _Iris_ you speak of, pray tell?”

“Oh,” Mel blushed. “It’s my nickname for you, from my favorite Georgia O’Keefe artwork, _Black Iris II,_ depicting a smoky grey iris flower in full bloom, with white petals atop dark, damask, and grey-lined petals, all lifted together by a sturdy emerald-colored stem.”

“Fancy that,” Abigael murmured. She again reached for the postcard and before Mel could stop her, walked over to the kitchen and pinned it to the bare stainless-steel fridge with an equally grey metallic magnet. “I’ve been called so many names in my lifetime—Desdemona, Delilah, Bathsheba, Scarlet Woman, Cayenne…”

“ _Cayenne?”_ mouthed Mel, giving Abigael a questioning look.

“As in, the pepper. But _never_ Iris.”

“I can scratch it out—we can pretend I never wrote it down—” Mel started.

“ _No_ ,” Abigael responded abruptly. “Iris, Iris, _Iris._ I rather fancy it,” she said, her tongue exploring the floral analogy; she found herself altogether amused by Mel’s startled expression. “Perhaps it's time we added a bit of sultry color to this drab _endroit_.”


	7. Of Plaster & Perusal

7 Of Plaster & Perusal

_8:49 pm, 36 Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

The day had started simple enough. A tiny espresso, dark as midnight, no cream, sugar, or anything, except for a hint of five spice (her own personal blend of cinnamon, allspice, clove, ginger, turmeric). She walked into her stately, imposing office, and soon after, to an underground meeting of the Galadriels, a warlock-fairy hybrid family given to sudden penchants of piercing violence. _Goliath Galadriel, in particular._

_Her first mistake was killing Goliath’s sister. Her second mistake was showing up for the blasted mediation meeting at all._

Not that Abigael had had any choice in the matter. For whatever odd reason, whenever she spoke her mind, monsters seemed to surface upward and, spotting that she was a mere five-foot-three, would seize upon her neck and attempt to choke her. _As Ms. Giedre Galadriel had._ It was really a most unfortunate Catch-22 situation; her clients needed to hear the truth, but when listening, they were seized with fits of anger and would try to stifle her voice as best as they possibly could. Abigael, losing oxygen, would have less control over her magic, sending sparks flying everywhere in self-defense, thus killing the very wicked creatures she was meant to assist. _Couldn’t be helped, really, that they were all fools, fools and fools alike._

Everyone having been unintentionally annihilated, she rushed home, fleeing into her marble-inlaid master bathroom, her unfortunate _modus operandi_ as of late. She locked the door behind her, and slumped to the floor, a sharp pain having engulfed her lower arm. Abigael looked down at her wrist. _Blast._ Her medical supplies were downstairs, and she couldn’t very well drip blood all over the pristine, unblemished marble.

She then heard a tentative knock on the bathroom door. “Are you ok?”

 _Mel. Of course. I forgot it was Sunday._ “I—” Abigael stammered. She was about to say she was perfectly fine—just _peachy_ —but somehow, her voice failed her at that particular moment. “I—could use a plaster, if you’ve got one…”

“A… _plaster_? Are you redoing your bathroom tiles or something?”

Abigael did an involuntary facepalm, recalling that her companion was American, and not _at_ _all_ familiar with British lexicon. “A large gauze bandage,” she said, gritting her teeth. The pain was growing sharper, and she knew perfectly well what she needed. “Check the kitchen drawer near the sink.” “ _Please,”_ she added as an afterthought. She heard Mel’s footsteps dissipate, down the stairs and into the adjoining area. Moments later, she heard a _swish_ and the thick bandage was slid under the bathroom door.

_8:55 pm, 36 Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

Abigael stood up, her joints now painfully stiff from having been seated on the unyielding solid floor, and moved toward the porcelain sink basin. She adjusted the tap, placing her injured wrist under the warm water, adding gardenia-scented antibacterial soap to cleanse the wound. After a couple of minutes, she turned off the tap, blotted her wrist, and applied the bandage.

She realized then that her medicine drawer still had all of her herbal tinctures—ginger, arrowroot, poppy, and peppermint. _Then she froze_. She forgot to remove her… _other_ tinctures, such as her absinthe poison tincture for self-defense purposes. _And_ her monthly subscription to _Goth Bridal_ , with her bookmarked pages of ebony-colored, fierce, swan-like ballgowns, that she knew she would never in her life have an opportunity to wear. There was one particular gown she fancied, a black Neiman Marcus “Mac Duggal” trumpet silhouette number with floral lace and faux ostrich feather-embellished cap sleeves…Abigael unlocked her bathroom door and gingerly strode down the stairs to the living room sofa where Mel was waiting, reading one of her books on Georgia O’Keefe that she had brought with her.

 _Good,_ Abigael thought to herself. _She didn’t notice._

Mel looked up, appearing relieved that Abigael was alive in one piece, and gave Abigael an almost tender look, the sort that one might give to one’s winged lover, soon to fly off into the night in those myths Abigael recalled from years ago as a child. _The sort of glance one might give after viewing one’s innermost thoughts and delicate feelings. Or clandestine reading material, come to think of it._

Abigael frowned slightly. “Rooting through an overlord’s literary collection without permission is a gross violation of privacy,” she sniffed, attempting to play things cool. “I hope you realize that.”

“Is there anything you’d like to…talk about?” Mel delicately attempted to broach the unnamed subject—the proverbial elephant in the room—the wedding magazines she’d spent half an hour examining ( _after freezing time so it was really mere seconds_ ). _Perused. Thumbed through delicately, examining the soft, glossy, refined pages of feathery black dresses and other such fanciful costumes, that created within Mel’s own vibrantly bountiful imagination, the thought of darkness and light uniting in a nuptial ceremony one day, to be consummated in a passionate, fiery duality of…_

“Let’s just pretend this never happened,” Abigael flatly stated, moving to the kitchen to find herself an icepack for her now-throbbing head.

“ _As you wish_.”


	8. Dance & De La Renta

8 Dance & De La Renta

_9:15 pm, Multitudes of Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

Mel entered the airy luxury apartment with a clatter, her stylish boots scraping against the Siberian oak floor. She hopped in place, awkwardly unzipping them, attempting to steady herself by laying the palm of her hand on the alcove wall. Her ivory jumpsuit was slightly frayed at the pants edges, and her soles were aching from having been on her feet the entire day of Macy’s wedding. She tried to wipe off the grin of exhilaration on her face from having seen Macy finally, at long last, marry Harry, the father of their future child, knowing that Abigael had purposefully not been invited.

 _Abigael was not invited._ It was, simply put, because she was a veritable walking _faux pas_ , with her tight, revealing, slinky leather outfits that screamed “Dominatrix” and her penchant for spur-of-the-moment unremitting violence. One couldn’t risk harming an unborn child by purposefully choosing to invite someone as volatile as that, which Maggie laid out to Mel, matter-of-factly, a couple of weeks before the anticipated nuptials. Mel understood perfectly from Macy’s perspective as an anxious bride and mother-to-be, but still wished that somehow, things could have happened differently. Mel couldn’t help but feel as though polite society had rejected Abigael once more—carelessly tossed her aside, as though she was dispensable and not the most powerful woman of her realm, professionally or otherwise. _No wonder she turned out the way she did._

She spotted Abigael pensively looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows, drink in hand. Mel ventured closer, until she was several feet away from this delicate, elfin figure. “I-I’m sorry, Abigael,” Mel spoke up. “I’m really sorry you weren’t invited—”

Abigael put up a hand, as if to request silence. Mel acquiesced. “I can’t blame them—honestly, who in their right mind would allow me to attend an event like that? Besides,” Abigael turned her gaze away from the illuminated city lights to regard Mel with a fixed intensity. “I can’t _stand_ weddings. You of all people, Mel, should have known that by now.”

“You mean, you can’t stand weddings because you haven’t gone to one before—” Mel began.

“Don’t make me laugh—” Abigael attempted heady sarcasm, but Mel continued.

“ _Abigael Vanessa Jameson-Caine._ ” Abigael gave an involuntary start upon hearing Mel utter her full nomenclature. “I have known you for at least thirty-some Sundays so far. For years, counting the times that you have nearly killed me in combat, imprisoned me, or otherwise.” Mel stepped closer to Abigael, until they were no more than an arms-length distance apart. “I know that you prefer your drinks shaken, not stirred. Plain, not on the rocks (which is _really_ European). I know that you love Midnight, your tiny miasmic pony, more than you’d ever care to admit, and your pearl jewelry is the best weaponry I’ve seen in my lifetime, magical or otherwise. Animal welfare is your true passion above anything or anyone else. You bookmark Gothic bridal magazine pages and hide them under your living room coffee table when no one’s looking. _Under your guest bed too_. Your favorite wedding gown is a black Neiman Marcus “Mac Duggal” trumpet silhouette number with floral lace and faux ostrich feather-embellished cap sleeves.” Mel delved into Abigael’s personal bubble and was now perhaps less than six inches away from her visage. “ _I know I’m right_. So don’t lie to my face and tell me that weddings _don’t matter_. They do, and they matter to _you._ ”

Mel paused for a moment, as the weight of her words sank in to her recipient, then reached over, sweeping a stray tendril of wavy chestnut hair behind Abigael’s ear. “What I’m saying is…meet me here in ten minutes, dressed up. We’ll have our own wedding dance. I’ll wait down the hall until you make your decision.” And with that, Mel departed for the long, dark corridor.

_9:30 pm, New York Luxury Apartment_

Mel checked her phone’s clock. _9:30 pm,_ it read. _Had Abigael taken Mel’s words to heart? One could only hope,_ she thought, standing up and walking back toward the high-ceilinged central chamber of the luxurious enclave. Upon reaching its edge, she noticed the same sylphlike figure facing her against the expansive city view. _Abigael,_ wearing what appeared to be an Oscar de la Renta floral-patterned black silk long-sleeve ball gown, with a _very_ revealing scoop-necked open back. _It was all Mel could do to avoid gawking._

“ _Pardon?_ ” drawled Abigael, examining Mel’s peculiar expression closely. “Do I have a bit of makeup on my nose?”

“What? N-no!” stammered Mel. “You look _very_ beautiful Ms. Jameson-Caine, _Esquire_ , if I do say so myself.”

“As do you,” Abigael murmured. “ _As do you.”_

Pulling her phone from her pocket, Mel turned on a Melanija Paradis original, whose low and sultry tone filled the echo chamber:

\-- _Soul & Sparks—_

_Petals, falling into darkness,_

_I catch one and it sparkles in the light,_

_My precious Iris II, in the midnight._

_Those sparks I feel, tell me they’re real,_

_Please say that I’m not just dreaming._

_Your tresses, that gown on the balcony leaning,_

_Please don’t say that I’m just dreaming._

_Champagne bubbles flow from my heart,_

_Please take it—its really all yours._

_Darling, all I know is—you’re a work of art._

_Your hand in mine, mine in yours,_

_Let our quiet effervescent love live,_

_Forevermore._

They continued to dance, drawing nearer, and _nearer still_ , until Abigael leaned a final bit forward on her black triangle flats, meeting Mel tenderly on the lips. The two kissed, sinking into each other’s arms, unwilling to let the other go.


	9. Felicitations & Fecundity

9 Felicitations & Fecundity

_8:56 pm, 48 Sundays in, New York Luxury Apartment_

“Congratulations, Vera,” Mel heard the familiar accented drawl as she crossed the threshold of Abigael’s apartment, shaking off her boots by the brand new doormat, which Mel hadn’t ever recalled seeing before. _Was it because Abigael hated rain water on her marble floors?_ Or, which Mel had come to suspect, _did Abigael purchase it because she came to expect (and thoroughly enjoy) Mel’s company every Sunday?_ Mel wasn’t entirely sure but preferred to think it was due to the latter reason.

“…You knew? About Macy having her baby this morning, I mean?” Mel turned to face a red aproned-Abigael, who was busy in the kitchen, pulling out the fancy dishes she never once allowed herself to use, having lived in this airy dwelling all by herself, with nothing remotely worth celebrating in all of her years.

“Word travels fast in the realm, Mel,” Abigael replied, reaching over and pulling out a steaming baked savory concoction from the oven that made Mel’s mouth positively water. “Shepherd’s Pie? I baked it myself,” she said, placing the delectable item on a ceramic hot plate, readying it for placement on the Ashford dining table. “ _What?_ ” Abigael noticed that Mel’s mouth had dropped slightly open, as if she were momentarily stunned.

“N-nothing—I just—I guess I never thought you were the homey sort—not that there’s anything wrong with any of that! Being an overlord _and_ a chef!” Mel hurriedly stated. “ _It looks good on you_.” She stared half-dazed at Abigael, openly looking her up and down, absorbing every ounce of this vision of this brunette pixie dreamgirl of hers, this mischievous trickster charmer, her lovely iridescent O’Keefian Iris.

Abigael smiled and laughed a little to herself, her shoulder-length chestnut wavy hair glimmering in the twilight evening’s urban glow. “I may be highly irrational, hot-tempered, and unintentionally homicidal at times, but I do feel that the entry of a new magical spirit into this realm _is_ cause for celebration. Don’t you?” She looked pointedly at Mel, who had gone and plucked silverware from the kitchen and placed them on the dining room table at their usual spots.

“Of course—I just didn’t think you were the celebrating sort…” Mel tried to think of a way to word things diplomatically.

“I wasn’t before I started my career, but once you’ve seen as much death, destruction, and corruption as I have, you start looking at things in a new and altogether… _different_ light. Especially when you meet someone who enlightens you to that effect.” Abigael spoke, giving Mel a pointed look as she strode toward the table, champagne flutes and uncorked bottle in hand, laying both glasses down and pouring, handing one to Mel, who accepted silently.

They spent the next several minutes tucking into their plates of Shepherd’s Pie. Mel couldn’t recall the last time she had carrots, onions, and celery in a single dinner. Her meals as of late had consisted of peanut butter sandwiches or a slice of apple, between doing standard vanquishings and making sure Macy and her baby survived childbirth successfully. Mel couldn’t recall the last time anyone took the time to cook for her at all, let alone lamb enriched in its own gravy drippings, with crisped mashed potatoes and grated melted cheese _in a_ _fancy piecrust, for crying out loud._ Chewing slowly and savoring the symphony of flavors, Mel closed her eyes rapturously. _Abigael had really outdone herself this time._

_9:05 pm, New York Luxury Apartment_

“Have you ever thought about having kids, Abigael?” Mel blurted out suddenly, out of nowhere. _She was amazed that Abigael could put together an elegant meal, keep the apartment clean, be a successful overlord, while appearing to the world an exceptionally chic lady…what could this woman_ not _do?_

“Me, with brats of my own?” Mel winced at the word “ _brats,”_ but Abigael continued on. “I kid, _I kid_. To be honest, having a child about would bring a measure of joy to this dormant apartment. I already have a vintage toy collection, plenty of space, airtight windows, and a discerning taste in music. Not to mention, I keep a clean, highly sanitary house. But I haven’t taken it into serious consideration.” Abigael took a small sip of champagne, placing the glass back on the table.

“Why not?” Mel asked curiously.

Abigael peered down at her Shepherd’s Pie, tracing the individually-imprinted crust indentations she had learned from when she was younger, concentrating, gathering her thoughts together for what she suspected was turning into a more serious conversation. Redirecting her view upward, she returned Mel’s unwavering gaze, her own eyes quivering ( _tears, or a trick of the light perhaps?)._ “Because there’s no traits of mine I’d want passed down.”

“Really? None at all?” Mel responded in disbelief. “You are two types of intelligent—book-smart _and_ street-smart. Both of which are in short supply among the magical and mortal populations alike. You represent the reprehensible. You are a brave leader that finds meaning in darkness, where few dare venture to go. You have an unparalleled smart-ass British sarcastic wit about you, not to mention…” Mel decided to go full steam ahead. “ _Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?_ I don’t think you know just how beautiful you are. _Those are some good-looking genes…_ ”

“You flatter me, Mel, you truly do,” Abigael said softly. Her cheeks had flushed slightly pink at Mel’s “smart-ass” remark, wondering what it would be like to experiment with Mel’s physicality in a particular level of passionate ardor, though for the present, she brushed this thought aside. “But you forget that I have a lethal temper and an arsenal of deadly weapons.” Abigael half-expected Mel to recoil in horror, but to her astonishment, Mel smiled.

“Who doesn’t, in this day and age? Regarding both the temper and the arsenal, I mean,” said Mel. “This is the twenty-first century. Anger management therapy exists for mortals, and I assume that it must exist in some capacity for the magical realm. As for the weapons, as long as they’re fully secured under lock and key, I wouldn’t imagine it being an issue. Worst case scenario, we could auction it off, or sell it—or place it in a deposit box for safekeeping.”

Abigael nodded. “Excellent points, Mel. I do think, though, that you forget how mumsie was toward me. How can I be an effective parent with a harpy of a mother?”

“By being aware of what you’ve experienced. You know what not to do,” Mel said, matter-of-factly. “And, what better way to move on and heal from your childhood battle scars, then to create your own family?”

“Create _our_ own, someday, you mean.” Abigael reached across the table and took Mel’s hand in hers, kissing it, much to Mel’s astonishment.


	10. Cinderella's Shoe

10 Cinderella’s Shoe

_9 am, 60 Sundays and a day, New York Luxury Apartment_

Abigael awakened, alone in her sumptuous bedframe, laden with a weighted dark down comforter and 1000 threadcount sheets. _Had the past multitude of weeks been a passing fancy, a mere wish, an ephemeral, short-lived dream?_ She donned her scarlet heron-printed Japanese silk bathrobe, padding softly in her slippers to the kitchen and the surrounding alcove. It seemed far too eerily quiet after all those many evenings spent in the peaceful-yet-sparkling company of a magical, raven-haired feminine beauty.

She recalled fragments of the evening before—the invitation to share her bed—Mel’s questioning eyes. _Are you sure?_ They seemed to say. _She had beckoned again, and Mel had finally entered her bedchamber at her explicit behest, slowly walking toward her own petite shape, dwarfed by the billowing blankets and pillows that threatened to engulf her very form._ _Having spread the weighted blanket over to Mel, Mel shifted herself so that she was directly aligned with Abigael’s body. Abigael could feel the weight of Mel’s breasts pressing onto her delicate back, the curved body of her familiar twin soul, the sensitive underside of her knees making contact with Mel’s firm kneecaps, enveloped in smooth, silky sienna-colored melanin, as Abigael uttered a soundless gasp. Their feet inexorably linked, their toes curling, linked to each other as if held by an invisible thread, they gave new meaning to the curvature of silver, the very act and art of that which constitutes spooning._

Abigael knew that the Scheherazade contract was fulfilled. Mel was a free agent now, no longer bound to the stipulations and terms that had taken her away from her own family. But then, she rounded the corner and spotted a small brown paper bag on the dining room table that she must have missed in her earlier sleep-deprived haze. Curious, she opened it, removing its contents. The first item was, according to the label attached, “dark chocolate chip banana breakfast bread: warm in oven 200 degrees Fahrenheit for 10 minutes.” Abigael smiled; _how very kind._

She thought that was it, but as she made to toss the paper bag in the trash bin, she heard a light rattling sound. Intrigued, she brought the bag back to the dining room table, shaking the contents out.

It was, Abigael realized, Mel’s Costa Rican blue butterfly ring, with a note attached. “Find Me <3”

She grinned, fishing out Midnight from her bathrobe pocket. Placing the tiny pony on her marble floor, she uttered a few words that she recalled from her childhood. The tiny pony suddenly grew larger, until it was the size and shape of a miniature Palomino. Nickering and neighing softly, its glossy eyes fell upon its mistress.

“Take me to Vera Manor, Midnight.”

And so the pony did.

\--THE END--


End file.
